


Farce of the Written Word

by zerolli



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-21 19:16:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1561130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zerolli/pseuds/zerolli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Freddie Lounds was bored, and that did not happen often. </p><p>She had scoured the inside of Will Graham’s house inch by inch. (She wouldn’t go back to the barn yet, her stomach wasn’t strong enough to revisit that scene any time soon.) Scanned every inch of dust, and fingered through almost all of his notes. Everything matched what he had said when he sat her down two days ago. Hannibal Lecter was the Chesapeake Ripper, and Will Graham was luring him out into the open. </p><p>Papuan Black Bass he called him. For her understanding he gave a description. <i>“Imagine a Largemouth with the teeth of a small shark. It looks like a Bass. Acts like a Bass. Just don’t get to close.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

Freddie Lounds was bored, and that did not happen often. 

She had scoured the inside of Will Graham’s house inch by inch. (She wouldn’t go back to the barn yet, her stomach wasn’t strong enough to revisit that scene any time soon.) Scanned every inch of dust, and fingered through almost all of his notes. Everything matched what he had said when he sat her down two days ago. Hannibal Lecter was the Chesapeake Ripper, and Will Graham was luring him out into the open. 

Papuan Black Bass he called him. For her understanding he gave a description. _“Imagine a Largemouth with the teeth of a small shark. It looks like a Bass. Acts like a Bass. Just don’t get to close.”_

In the back of her mind her ego preened, she was right. Well, mostly right. The rest of her wasn’t as delighted. Surrounded by crooked bookshelves, and fishing gear, as well as a broken window, Freddie could confidently say that the most comforting thing about Graham’s home were his dogs. He might be the equivalent of the stereotype of a crazy cat lady, but she could understand the reason why he was inclined to keep so many.

He was alone. More so than when Jack Crawford dragged him into this business kicking and screaming. 

And now he had dragged her in, kicking and screaming. She rubbed her sprained wrist, she tried to get a good punch in. She hoped he’d at least get a black eye from the scare he gave her. No such luck, he got away squeaky clean. He also got away with her phone, laptop, camera, every piece of technology she possessed. And seeing as how the most advanced thing that Graham had was an old television with no cable, she couldn’t help but feel cut off. 

Jimmy Wilkes – owner of TattleCrime, would no doubt ‘grieve’ her loss. By that, he’d have an excuse to have an extended leave to a vacation spot of his own choosing. Her apartment would go back on the market for a price she could no longer afford, the only plus here was that if this panned out, she had first dibs on any information for the first story, or book. 

That’s if this panned out. Freddie was a realist. She had seen things that were simpler than this fall through. The slim possibility that a savant of psychology could fall for Will Graham’s type of manipulation. Its lack of charm, and reserved emotion almost made it seem sincere. Almost.

Then again, she was looking for its falsity.

The sound of a car stopped outside. Freddie got up from the green armchair and weaved through the ever changing dog maze to look out the window. Will Graham returned home, and with him Jack Crawford. 

They trudged through the snow, hit their shoes off at the mouth of the porch, and the profiler invited his supervisor inside. It almost seemed like they were friendly.   
Crawford’s eyes landed on Freddie, while nodding he asked. “He told you everything?” It was accusatory. 

“He did.” She confirmed, folding her arms across her chest. She tried to be dignified, that dignity was sucked out with the white shepherd mix nosing against her side. Crawford didn’t seem to care, his gaze snapped to Graham.

“I didn’t have a choice, I found her in the barn, and she tried to shoot me.”

Crawford rolled his eyes. “There’s two of you now.” Graham’s eyebrows knitted together as he stood straighter, clearly insulted. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Crawford took a seat on one of the small couches in the den. “It means what you heard.” He didn’t go in depth to what he was alluding to, but Freddie could take a couple of guesses. 

Graham and she joined the head of FBI’s behavioral unit on opposing seats. 

“You are aware that Graham murdered Randall Tier?” Freddie asked, she knew well enough that this wasn’t the best way to start off the conversation. Part of her wanted to see Graham squirm, another wanted to get some facts checked out.

“Yes.” Jack nodded. “It was in self-defense.”

“Then why is his _meat_ in Graham’s fridge?” She continued, eyes rounding as if they were exchanging high school gossip. 

“He needs to gain Dr.Lecter’s trust again, for that some … actions were necessary.”

It hit her. “Hannibal the cannibal.” 

Graham’s mouth thinned, and an exasperated look took hold of his face. “You certainly dodged a bullet at that dinner.” He admitted referring to the time they had all dined together. Leaning back into his chair. For the first time Freddie saw Graham for what he was. Tired. 

“All of Will’s actions are recorded, and statements taken. But pardon me saying so, but watching you at the museum was difficult. You could be more subtle.”  
Will’s lips crawled upward. “Could be. Doctor Lecter is not a man of subtlety however.”

“So all of this – who else knows?” Freddie asked, she wanted to know her conspirators. 

“Jimmy Price, and Brian Zeller. Will, myself, you.” Crawford addressed each of them as he listed them down. 

“Not Alana Bloom?” Freddie almost looked surprised. Will didn’t know if that was acting on her part, or genuine. With his experience with the tabloid writer, it was probably the former.

“No.” Will replied, his voice soft, mournful. 

“That makes it more tragic. Considering she’s sleeping with him.” Her runaway tongue blabbed, Will’s face turned stony, she was picking at his nerves and she knew it. 

“Winifred.” 

The red-head looked at Crawford with distaste. She never liked that name, years of childhood teasing had earned her aversion to it.

“I’m just trying to get a full picture here.”

“You know everything, I told you.” Will Graham argued, his hands clasped together, and voice rising. 

“I’m just getting a second source.” 

This earned a scoff from the profiler. “Since when do you ever need a source?”

That stung. But she wouldn’t let either of them notice. 

“Frederick Chilton knows.” Will added. Crossing off another name from his mental list. 

“He’s dead, _Agent Graham_ -” Freddie started, and stopped. “He’s not is he?”

“He’s in intense care, Mariam was never a good shot, especially with her dominant arm gone. For all purposes until we catch him, he’s dead.” 

This illusion they’ve built for the psychiatrist was extensive. She didn’t know where all the doors led. Which staircases led where, from the outside - he must think he’s winning. It was impressive. She couldn’t help but be a little in awe. 

“How close are you?” She finally asked. 

Will sighed, and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Oh I’d say, we’re close. He’s finally stepping out of the shadows. We just need-“

“Lecter standing over a body.” Freddie finished for him. Will nodded. 

“We need that. And we need a hell of a lot more to tie him to the other murders.” Crawford confessed, he looked at Graham. 

“We’re going to get all of Lecter’s contacts, pull his phone records as a routine background check. We can’t investigate.” 

Freddie listened to Jack, her mind clicked. “You want me to.” 

Jack gave her an appreciative look. As if he’s impressed that a toddler had figured out how to stack blocks. She never liked that quality about him, he had his nose down on everyone, and saw himself as the smartest man in the room. This experience must be humbling enough for him. 

“You’re not law enforcement. So if you see this list on Graham’s desk, nothing’s stopping you from calling them, and matching them to any of the recent tableaus.” 

“I want to be allowed to FBI evidence. And to be the first to get this out.” She bargained, she hoped that Jack wouldn’t try to paw away this only chance she had to get her life back in order. 

Crawford’s expression dimmed, and he looked less amiable. If he ever did. 

“Done. In return you will stay here, and help us catch the Chesapeake Ripper.”


	2. Chapter 1

They settled into a rhythm over the past four days. Graham would work at his desk, she at the couch. It wasn’t quiet, there was the perpetual scuffling of feet, and the weather hadn’t been too hospitable either, meaning for the majority of the days the dogs stayed in. 

Barking and whining started to really dial up on the third day, they were restless – as was Graham. Lecter had a backlog of clients he needed to attend to – Graham thought that the good doctor was getting suspicious. 

“He never gets behind on clients.” He muttered for possibly the sixth time as he put his efforts into looking of some of the evidence Jimmy Price brought by this morning. 

“I’m surprised this hasn’t happened earlier.” Freddie murmured out, crossing out yet another name who was both alive and well. And very eager to interrupt her questions with a barrage of new promotions her store dealt in. She understood what it meant to be self-employed, though in this case her definition might not even come close to covering all the bases. 

“What do you mean?” 

Freddie looked up to see Will Graham looking at her through his glasses, making him look like an underfed sparrow. He didn’t eat much, after he returned from the dinner with Lecter he spent the majority of his time in the bathroom, regurgitating. His hair was messier, as he didn’t look after it unless he went to see the psychiatrist. 

“He spends a lot of his time on you. One would think too much.” Freddie supplied, a thought entered her mind, which narrowed her eyes. “You two aren’t…” 

Graham’s confusion was spelt out so clearly Freddie wondered if the man ever made it past middle school if the implication didn’t hit home straight away.

“Sleeping together.” Graham’s face blanched. “Because then Hannibal Lecter is a man who can get around.” Graham shook his head violently. 

“No.” He ground out. “I am not sleeping with the Chesapeake Ripper.” 

Freddie grinned. “Yet. From a certain perspective…” Again Graham didn’t let her finish, he took off his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Must all tabloid journalists be so crass?” 

Freddie shrugged. “People like to read about scandals. People losing it, people down on their troubles. I didn’t make people.”

Graham slid his glasses back on. “If you did I would give you criticism on the poor design. It doesn’t mean you should encourage it.” 

“If I don’t write it, someone else will. And someone else will get my pay.” 

“But it’s not about the money to you.” He spoke tiredly, he leaned on the back of the wooden chair, arm slung over the top. 

Freddie looked to the dog (Winston, she memorized all of Graham’s four legged friends) curled at his feet, and then back to him. 

“No. It’s about delivering news. Laugh at it all you want – I always wanted to be a reporter.”

Graham didn’t look like he believed it, it didn’t matter. For once she told him the truth, if he didn’t take it, it was fine. Truth was subjective in day-to-day life anyways.  
“How are you doing?” He changed the topic. Freddie sighed, dropping the pile of papers onto the coffee table in front of her, pen rolling off and under it. 

“It’s going as well as to be expected. How does he choose his victims?”

Graham made a small tsk sound with his mouth as he glanced out the window.

“He chooses the rude. In his mind pests don’t deserve to walk as humans. But there’s something else to it, something that I can … identify.” He paused, and looked at her. “But can’t put into words.” The red-head’s face looked a little too slack for his liking. 

“Are you alright?” 

Her head jerked as if being drawn out of a coma. “The rude.” It’s half a question. Half statement.

“Yes. It’s petty, but with him it’s difficult to say.”

“I better not have been on that list.” Freddie shivered as she ducked under the coffee table to retrieve that pen. Blasted pens, roll too easily – a keyboard would never do that. She missed her computer, and the feel of plastic keys as opposed to the near typewriter Graham brought up from his basement when she asked for something she could type on. 

She rose quickly enough to see a wry smirk nudging on his lips. “He likes your work too much to put you on a list Freddie.” 

That took her by surprise. “He likes my work?” She couldn’t tell if she should feel pride or revolted.

“Well, to be fair – he might not now. Seeing as how you wrote all those nasty articles about the Ripper.” 

Freddie’s mouth soured as if she was forced to take a bite out of a green lemon. “The ones Jack told me to write.” 

Graham nodded, stifling a yawn. “He doesn’t forgive easily. Or more accurately, he doesn’t forgive.”

The journalist lolled her head to the side. “He forgave you.” Graham looked somewhat lost in his memory, as if searching for what moment she was referencing.  
“He hasn’t. He simply believes that we have wronged each other equally, so there is no quarrel.” 

“That’s childish.” Freddie argued, soothing a stray curl behind her ear. 

Graham shrugged his shoulders lightly. “He plays a game, he doesn’t consider consequences. There’s a reason why children aren’t tested for psychopathy.” 

They went back to their work soon after that, the tepid quiet resumed. Picking up the phone, Freddie dialled another number down the list. Number 156 – she was making real progress. The only problem was that there were over a thousand numbers. Crawford sacked her with the job no one would take. Well, no one other than Will Graham. He probably had more reason than the whole team combined to bring Lecter to a court room. 

“Kyle Ryan, whattcha want?”

“Hello Mr Ryan, I am from the A.R.S.E. we’re wondering if your therapy with Doctor Lecter is going as you’ve hoped it to be.”

She heard Graham cough from his desk. 

“You must be confused lady, I don’t get no mind clean up from no shrink.” Freddie imagined him as thinning and bald. The alcoholic sway to the words made her think of him in a stained shirt and sweat-pants. In her imagination he smelled like Graham’s house with an unhealthy mix of cheese.

Bringing down a pen to the list of the paper, Freddie started to cross the name off. 

“My brother though, he went to that Lecter guy. Shit shrink. He’s being disbarred or some shit like that?” Close. But unless Lecter’s hiding a law degree up his ass, and registered with the bar, then it was unlikely. 

“Why would you say that?” Freddie asked, stopping midway in her double layered line.

“Because the idiot killed himself a few weeks ago.”

Freddie stopped. “Really?” 

“Yeah. Listen shouldn’t you know that already? Where did you say you were calling from?”

Must have been getting sober. Graham’s head was down on the desk, and she couldn’t tell if he passed out, or fell asleep. Though the shake of his back she could guess that he was laughing. 

“Our database must not be properly updated, let us correct it and get back to you.” She hung up the phone and flipped through the previous pages. There were six discovered suicides as of now. For such a world renowned specialist, Doctor Lecter was rather … sloppy.

“What is it?” Graham called. 

“There’s a string of suicides, it doesn’t help your case, but I’m willing to bet that your dinner companion is quite the conversationalist.”

“Quite.” Graham agreed, he got up from his chair and approached the couch, glancing over the logs, and the notes she made from each call. “It looks like you’ve done quite a bit.” He noted, looking at her, waiting for her to rake in the praise. Who was she to disappoint?

“Well yes. Not often that the FBI asks me to assist them in a case.” 

“Remember you’re only in this mess because you take your job so seriously.”

Freddie pursed her lips. “As do you. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here either.” 

Graham produced a sort of pleased noise of agreement. “It’s unsettling we have common ground.”

If she wasn’t passive aggressive she would have possibly aimed something for his shin. Instead she just gave him the best good natured smile she could. “More than.”  
\---  
It was five to four, or five to sixteen, whatever clock you used, that Lecter called. Graham didn’t have caller ID, and he had gone out to get his car out of three feet of snow.

“I apologize, who is this?” 

Her throat constricted. She wasn’t thinking of him, not really. Her mind had gone back to the observatory being held by Abel Gideon, and helping Chilton scoop his guts back into his body so they wouldn’t unravel to the floor. 

She changed her tone, and speaking pattern, imitating Leah Orwell, an online blogger who did videos for TattleCrime. She probably should have chosen better, considering she now knew that Lecter was a frequent visitor. 

“Nothing to apologize for dear, this is Simone.”

There was silence on the other line, she didn’t know what for.

“And you are?” She asked, in a bright and sunny tone. 

“I am William’s psychiatrist. Would it be possible to speak with him?”

“You must be Doctor Lecter!” She played the part, dignity be damned.

“Yes.” Affirmed the voice on the other end, giving nothing away.

The door creaked open. Graham shook himself off, and threw the coat on the hanger. 

“Honey! It’s Doctor Lecter.” She produced through a stage whisper, her hand splayed poorly on the receiver of the phone. Her voice might have sounded cheery, but her face clearly showed the opposite. Graham looked concussed by this turn of events, so there were miracles in this world. 

Freddie handed the phone roughly to him, grateful that it was finally out of her hands. The snow covered sparrow brought the phone to his ear mechanically, still processing what had happened. 

“Hello Doctor Lecter.” He spoke evenly. Freddie listened on, stomach crumpled together in apprehension. 

“Simone?” Graham looked at her with amusement and horror, then to the tan pup curled in a ball whose name she borrowed. “She’s a friend.” He answered, clearing her status. “No, she won’t be joining us for dinner.” Thank whatever deity that existed for that. “She has a shift at the hospital. She’s a nurse.”

She sat down, hands finding the back of her neck. If Graham ever updated to the 21st century she’d kiss him full on the mouth. 

“I’ll pass on the invitation. I’ll be there in four hours.”

He hung up. The profiler sat down on a chair, dragging a hand over his jaw. 

“This is going to make interesting dinner conversation.” 

“You are allowed friends aren’t you? Or is Hannibal the Cannibal keeping you for himself?” 

The look on Will’s face was off putting. 

“He certainly put a lot of effort in getting me alone, and vulnerable. He’s the type of person who likes to possess people. He likes the control, he likes owning.”

Freddie didn’t like that. She didn’t like being similar to a psychopathic cannibal.

“Do you need help getting ready?” 

Graham shook his head. “I’m fine. But you’re invited to dinner whenever you’re free.”

The ginger snorted. “I’ll check my calendar. How was the last one? Seems like I should know since I was the main attraction.” She refused to call herself the main course.

She watched as he pretended to consider the past. “He called you bitter.”

Of all the nerve.  
\--  
She hoped that Lecter choked. Whatever monstrosity he prepared, she hoped he’d choke. She said the same to Will. He shared her feelings, it would be poetic justice. 

Graham had taken her to Baltimore, mainly because the man knew jack shit on female hygienic needs. It was all very safe, considering it was on the other side of the city in a convenience store the size of a bathroom. She went ahead and purchased what she needed on Graham’s account. 

She also went a bit over her required list, got herself a few bottles of hair dye and makeup. The brush with death four hours ago made it difficult to keep assuming that she would never come in contact with Lecter. After all the man rotated around Will, he even broke into his house in the past.

Freddie liked to think that she was the master of disguise. She might not have been James Bond, but she got away with quite a few characters in the past. The familiar car drove in front of the store after an hour or so, she got in, making herself comfortable. 

“He suspects that you’re alive.” Were the first words out of Graham’s mouth. Freddie’s limbs freeze despite being inside. 

“So what now?” 

Graham’s brows pinch upwards, as he makes a right turn. 

“We’ll have to kill you publically.”

“A body double.” She thought aloud. “You could always set it on fire.”

The profiler actually turned around in surprise. The reporter averted her gaze elsewhere. “You can’t tell any real features if a body is burned down – and I always liked the idea of going down in a ceremonial pyre.” She joked at the end.

It earned a slightly wispy chuckle from Graham. She found the notion of him laughing a rather comforting one. It might have been the forced cohabitation, but she was slowly growing comfortable with the man. 

“You have a flare for the dramatic. You two have that in common.”

Another similarity. 

The ride was quiet, for the most part. When they got out of the city, Freddie leaned against the window, cool glass against her skin. Even sensations like this made her happy to be alive. 

“How was dinner?” She eventually asked. 

“Delightful.” Graham hissed out. “Most of it was about Simone, and why I kept her from him.”

“What did you say?” She was curious about their fictional backstory. It would be the highlight of her evening.

“That I wasn’t. We haven’t seen each other for a few years since you lived in New Orleans. You moved to Baltimore only a week ago.”

“I must be a terrible nurse.” She mulled over. 

“The best. You were offered a better position here than New Orleans.” He corrected, Graham really did make her sound good. Hopefully though, not good enough to meet. 

“Are you going back there after this is over?” Freddie asked, peering out of the front window looking at the night sky. This far out of town you could see the stars. It wasn’t even all that dark with them and the moon out. 

“I think … after this, I might retire all together. Fix boats for a living. Maybe move back, still have my property there.”

They drove in silence the rest of the way to Wolf Trap. Freddie found herself thinking about what she would do after this was over – she found herself struggling with the concept of returning to TattleCrime. Maybe it was time to move on to a place where her life wasn’t hanging in constant balance – but that’s what she liked wasn’t it? She knew was she was getting into when she signed up for the gig of criminal journalist.

Hence her dilemma. 

They were greeted by a parade of canines, wagging their tails, and rubbing up against them. Graham, or rather Will, waded through them to get to the kitchen to feed them. Freddie dropped on the couch, listening to the sounds of the kitchen and the clanging of metal bowls. When Will returned unscathed from the kitchen Freddie felt like she wanted to apologize. Apologize for what she written, and apologize for the way she used him. He had been manipulated and tossed side to side for over a year. 

However true to Freddie Lounds fashion, she didn’t. She found herself curling up on the couch, pulling the call history to her. Will or rather, Graham, walked steadily to the bathroom, locked the door, but even that couldn’t drown out the sounds of gagging she heard. It was pointless she wanted to say, nonetheless she knew that he felt better if he got some of it out. 

Looking at the history, she started to read her notes. Patient, patient, ex-patient, patient, relative of patient, ‘friend’, ‘social elite’, patient, advertisement from India, IT consultant…

She flipped through the history, she couldn’t find the same number anywhere. Or at least the first twenty pages of it. If you have a consultant on call, you’d probably call more than once. She kept going. Patient, patient, ‘friend’, patient, ex-patient, psychologist, this went on until she got to a personal chef. Graham told her about the parties Lecter hosted, he even hired assistants. Wouldn’t he keep the same ones every time?

She thought back to the call, she was met by a very serious toned woman who gave an accurate description of the doctor, and explained that the doctor needed someone to take the place for one of the assistants who took leave. She gave her a referral number to the agency all of them used. 

She knew it was late, but she took her chances. She dialled the number. 

“ProCook Employement, how may we help you?” 

Freddie was too tired to sound sugary sweet. “I’m looking for a job in Baltimore – could I please be connected to someone who can help me?” 

“Of course. One minute please.” The receptionist cooed, she was put on hold, elevator music droning on in her ear. Eventually she was reconnected. 

“This is Barbara, I overlook Baltimore Restaurant representation. What do you need?” Short, frank, this woman wouldn’t play coy with her. 

“I’m looking for the position as a personal chef-“

“Aren’t we all?” She snapped back. Freddie could hear the woman sip coffee close to the telephone.

“I was wondering if there are any positions available in Baltimore?”

“No.” Came the curt answer. Freddie bit her tongue to resist from saying something regrettable.

“Really?” Freddie asked, sounding disbelieving. “Because I got off the phone with Rosa Meadows and she said that she’s gotten an assistant position with Hannibal Lecter.” There was silence on the other end. 

“Rosa also said that the position was still open, that he’s interviewing for the spot after… what was her name…”

“Olive Allen.” Barbara supplied. Freddie jotted it down, she got what she wanted.

“Yeah her, got fired.” 

“Olive didn’t get fired. Doctor Lecter said that she quit.” Now that was a mismatch of events. 

“Does this happen often?” Freddie asked, maybe there were other names to check out.

“No-most of them like working with Doctor Lecter. Olive was just difficult to get along with.” Barbara admitted. “Little bit of a pest, but she was very skilled.” 

_He chooses the rude._

“Well, I believe that’s enough for me to think about, I’ll call you if I need any other questions answered.” Freddie hung up before the woman could ask for her information, or any other form of identification. 

When Graham finished, she clicked her fingers. “Give me the victim list.” Going over the list now she picked out the numbers that only appeared once, and she didn’t distinguish between outgoing and incoming. High lighting them in red ink. 

Graham went to his desk, and picked up the clear folder. “You can’t pick a victim through a single phone call.” He was a sceptic to the end. Freddie smirked, accepting the folder without looking at him. 

“You can if they willingly come to your house.”

“Pardon?” Graham asked, sitting beside her, reading over the red, opening the folder and started to flip through, checking to see if any of the numbers matched.  
“I think he targets the service industry. You get a lot of assholes there. Ironically.” She explained, continuing on her work. 

“Check if you can find a number that ends with 5374.” 

Freddie scanned the papers, grateful for speed reading being a part of her toolbox. Forty pages in she found it. “546-5374.” 

The profiler frowned. “Andrew Caldwell. When did he call?”

Looking at the time stamp, she read aloud. “So over a year ago.” She commented. 

“That’s not accurate then. We found him a few months a while back.” 

Disappointed Freddie put the records on the table. “So does he keep their contact information?” She asked. Grasping for any way for her theory to still hold water. 

“I’ve checked his phone book, there’s nobody outside of work, and social circles.” Graham sat back, watching the back wall of his living room play host to the moon’s light. He was thinking, Freddie didn’t say anything to hinder that process. 

“Cards.” Graham came to the conclusion. 

Freddie got up from the couch, and dug through her breast pocket, fishing out one of five she always carried with her. She dropped it on the coffee table. 

“It makes sense. It has the number, address, everything he’d need to find someone on his own. Everyone who has their own business has them – needs to have them.”  
Graham sat straight as his mind filtered to the doctor’s desk. “He keeps them in plain sight.”

It seemed the more he found out about Hannibal Lecter the more he found that humans always blind themselves to what’s in front of them.  
\--  
Graham called Crawford about the situation afterwards. Like predicted, Crawford let them have it. He didn’t hold any punches. But he came through. Brian Zeller helped find a body in a morgue in New York. 

The following morning they brought it to Graham’s barn – they dressed it in Freddie’s clothes, forcing her to change into Graham’s. 

They damaged the side of the face to make it asymmetrical, harder to put together how someone looked. Even if Lecter could see a visage from simple bones it wouldn’t do much for him here. 

For the final touch the cut off a chunk of her hair (they made her an offer she couldn’t refuse), and attached it to the bald corpse. Her mane was trimmed, leaving just a little below the ears. As this progressed they took more and more away from her. Perhaps that’s the only way they could win. After all, the Ripper stole their heart, Katz. Stole their mind, Graham. Their stability, Bloom. Perhaps this was her price, pride.

Freddie didn’t think she looked like her. What horrified her was that the others said she did. If she was dead that is. 

“Who thought of the burning?” Jimmy Price asked, putting the tableau together. Graham pointed a finger at the reporter. Blaming her for all this trouble. Jimmy nodded, as if it was to be expected. 

They sat the woman in a wheelchair. The plan was to let the thing roll into TattleCrime’s front office – as a symbolism of her work there. They would light it on fire just before letting it go, letting the workers see the profile, and hair – and safely assume and report it to be her. All Crawford would have to do is say ‘what a terrible loss’, and no outright lying or deception of the public would take part. She was both, disgusted and horrified. 

The online paper would probably relocate. Good bye Baltimore crime reporting.

Piling into Graham’s van, they drove off to Freddie’s old work place. Wouldn’t they be glad to see her?


End file.
